Would you catch me if I fall?
by I am Maye Malfter
Summary: Mary is in her final days, and John will take care of her till her last breath, even though he no longer feels the same about her. Even though he feels like a liar, this is what he must do. But who will look after him when all of this is over?


**_Warning:_** SLASH. M/M relationship. If this is not what tickles your fancy, please don't read.

**_Disclaimer:_** Holmesian Canon characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.

**_Beta-reader:_** As always, thanks to the awesome **_bbjkrss _**for turning my clumsy writing into something much more readable. If anyone finds flaws, they're totally on me.

* * *

_"Someone once told me that the moment you stop to think whether you love someone or not, you've already stopped loving that person forever."_

**_Carlos Ruiz Zafón_**

* * *

.

**Would you catch me if I fall?**

by Maye Malfter

.

"_I love her,_" he said to himself. "_I truly love her._" He repeated it in his mind like a mantra learned and worn out by the passing of time.

Mary's hands trembled inside his own, cold, growing increasingly weaker. Her face was peaceful and calm, her eyes big, expressive, their brightness just a shadow of what it once was. Bedridden and destined to never get up again: such an unfair sentence for a creature so young. And yet she was smiling, like the day John saw her for the first time, that moment in which he decided he wanted Mary Morstan in his life forever.

And yet, despite all the reasons that compelled him to propose to her long ago remaining practically intact inside the dying woman, John Watson had to repeat to himself a thousand times a day that he truly loved her. That he was not with her only to fulfill his obligation. That he was not there just to please her in her last moments.

But it was becoming harder and harder to repeat it to himself when his brain started to shout a 'Liar!' every time, in a suspicious baritone pitch that made him feel like the most miserable being who had walked the face of the earth.

John had only just begun to notice it, far too busy to see it before as he looked for second and third opinions of the disease diagnosed to his wife.

_Brain cancer. Stage IV. Terminal._

The constant morning headaches, the dizziness, the nausea, the mood swings even. Everything fell into place as soon as the first of the neurologists assisted and diagnosed Mary after the CT scans. But they could not give up; Mary was a huge and wonderful force of nature, a dedicated woman, a teacher loved by her students because of her overwhelming personality. Mary Watson just _could not_ be dying.

But in fact she was, and two opinions later, with the symptoms getting worse and industrial quantities of _phemoryl_ always on hand to calm the woman's increasing pains, hopes of getting a different diagnosis were zero percent. The search for new specialists ceased, leading to the preparations for the fateful day.

They started with several trips to certain regions of the country that Mary wanted to see, visits to friends and acquaintances, the farewell of her beloved students and then, when her body was unable to keep up with her ideas, just peaceful nights at home along her husband.

Soon, much sooner than they might have thought, Mary's motor functions were diminished. She needed assistance for almost everything, and was bound to the enormous bed she had shared with her husband for just a couple of years. The only thing that seemed intact was that part of her brain which controlled speaking and reasoning, as well as memory.

Mary was perfectly capable of holding a conversation, remembering everything and everyone, and thinking just as she did before being diagnosed. Due to this, John would read to her every day. He would read her favorite books and the books she always wanted to read, because in her own words "all books in the world will never be enough."

And amid all that there was John.

John devastated by the news. John accompanying his wife to the trips to which he barely agreed. John accompanying her to visit all who knew her. John making tea every morning and evening, dealing with meals, taking care of the house. John making sure of supplying the medicine cabinet with the endless list of medications. John reading for her every day, holding her hand every night, listening to her silent weeping when she thought he could not hear her. John Watson being all he was expected to be, a dedicated and indulgent husband with his dying wife. And doing it willingly, wholeheartedly, with all his soul.

Until at some point, he simply stopped doing it with his heart.

The doctor believed that the way he felt, or didn't feel, was perhaps some kind of instinct of self preservation of his mind and body to cope with the impending loss of his wife. At least that was what he wanted to believe, as another explanation, the simplest indeed, was that John Watson had turned into a complete _bastard_ whom upon seeing himself bound to a woman destined to die had stopped loving her and had begun to see her like a work of a good samaritan. And John refused to believe that. He refused to see what the evidence showed him: That he, bastard or not, no longer loved Mary.

The sound of the doorbell came to his ears. Mary smiled at him and he smiled back.

"Seems like you have more visits."

"It looks like it. Do I look okay?"

"Love, you're always perfect."

John kissed her forehead and got up to open the door. And among all the people he might have expected to find in front of his home, the man staring back at him was not one of them.

"Sherlock?"

"John," the other man greeted with a nod. "May I"

"O-of course. C'mon in," John agreed, stepping away from the threshold. Sherlock entered the house, took a quick scan with his light eyes moving in all directions and then turned back to John, who was closing the door. "What can I do for you?"

"Where is Mary?"

John blinked in surprise. Sherlock had never been a fan of his wife, and John could ensure that it was mutual. In their first encounter, she had thrown a glass of red wine directly to the detective's face and had left the restaurant where the three of them were sharing a dinner. Thereafter things had not improved, and lately, after John decided not to assist him in several cases in order to take care of Mary during her illness, Sherlock had decided to depart completely from them, barely getting in touch with John and having nothing to do with his wife. Therefore, the fact that he was asking for his wife now was far too disconcerting.

"Mary?"

"Yes, John. Mary Morst… Watson. Mary Watson. Your wife. Where is she? I've come to see her."

"Sherlock, Mary is resting, you know her condition is delicate. If you've come to disturb her with any of your twisted power plays this is the worst time," John warned. As much as his feelings towards his wife were not entirely clear, what was completely clear to him were Sherlock's personality and reputation, and the last thing he needed were more hidden tears to deal with.

"I'm not here to make fun of your wife's illness. Do you think I'm some kind of inhuman robot?" John did not answer. Sherlock kept talking. "Believe me, if I could be anywhere else I would be, but I didn't come of my own free will. I have been summoned."

"Summoned?"

"Yes. Summoned," reaffirmed Sherlock. "Mary asked me to come and here I am. The truth is I don't understand why your wife would want to see me, but I fear that, given her condition, attending to her call is the least I can do."

John was puzzled, a lot. How could Mary have contacted Sherlock if John spent every waking moment with her? And most importantly, to what purpose had she done it?

On second thought, she could have called or written to Sherlock's mobile phone while John was making tea or anything from the house. Even when he went to the pharmacy looking for another bottle of phemoryl. No, the _when_ was not the problem. The problem was _why_. John shook his doubts and decided it was best to please his wife in this too, and the faster the better.

"This way." John led Sherlock to the bedroom, where Mary was waiting with her usual smile.

"Sherlock."

"Mary."

John placed a chair near Mary and gave it to Sherlock, while he sat down at the end of the bed, his gaze going from Sherlock's unreadable expression to the polite smile of his wife.

"John, sweetheart. Could you make us some tea?"

John nodded, not really surprised, and left the room. He had been kicked out. Mary asked him to make tea just to get him out of the room, which of course indicated that the conversation she would have with Sherlock was entirely private. Resignedly, the doctor put the kettle to boil, prepared some tea, placed the tray on the bedside table and left the room again to wait until Sherlock was gone.

...

"Please, if the husband wants to say a few words..."

That was the sign.

John got up from his seat in the front row, clutching the paper in his hand. He climbed a few steps and went straight to the small wooden platform located on one side of the deck. Mary's coffin sat in the middle, closed, as was her wish. There were a few muffled sobs and wailing at the back, but besides that, silence.

The doctor cleared his throat and loosened his tie a bit, his eyes stinging due to all the crying of the past few days. He began to read:

"Mary, _my Mary_, was the most beautiful and charismatic woman anyone could get to know. She was a force of nature, a hurricane that swept away every tear and sorrow, leaving only joy in its wake. She was my wife, my friend, and I thank God every day for putting her in my path when my life had lost all its meaning." John took a breath and continued, a small lump growing in his throat. "Life isn't fair, and it certainly wasn't for Mary. But despite having been snatched from our arms so early, she always showed everyone a smile. So this is how I want you to remember her, because this is how she wanted to be remembered."

At this point John had to clutch the paper harder, feeling his body shake while he tried to keep his composure. He should give a proper speech. He owed it to her. He went on.

"Mary was an extraordinary woman and her warmth will live in my heart and in the hearts of everyone forever. Remember her, and it will be like her death never happened. Smile, and you'll be honoring her memory." Some loud weeping was heard, and John continued. "To finish, I'm going to read Mary's favorite poem, because that was the last thing she asked me to do. Here it is."

_. _

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines._

_Write, for example, "The night is starry_

_and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."_

_The night wind revolves in the sky and sings._

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines._

_I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too._

_Through nights like this one I held her in my arms._

_I kissed her again and again under the endless sky._

_She loved me, sometimes I loved her too._

_How could one not have loved her great still eyes._

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines._

_To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her._

_To hear the immense night, still more immense without her._

_And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture._

_What does it matter that my love could not keep her._

_The night is starry and she is not with me._

_This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance._

_My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her._

_My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer._

_My heart looks for her, and she is not with me._

_The same night whitening the same trees._

_We, of that time, are no longer the same._

_I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her._

_My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing._

_Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses._

_Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes._

_I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her._

_Love is so short, forgetting is so long._

_Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms_

_my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her._

_Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer_

_and these the last verses that I write for her._

_. _

By the time John finished reading, the church was burdened by tears and sadness. His eyes were glazed. His cheeks were cold with traces of tears in them. The poem, the bloody poem Mary had made him read in front of everyone was like accessing all those feelings John had been unable to name. It was all John wanted to tell her but he never knew how. Damn! It even talked about how he stopped loving her but not quite. Mary knew it. _She knew_.

John tried to compose himself in order to sit back in place, but his knees did not respond. His body was stiff and scarcely obeyed his commands. He clenched the paper a little harder, as if this was his only link to reality, but his composure soon began to falter and he felt like falling to the floor. Then someone took his shoulders from the side, ran a hand through his back and held him.

John looked up and there, beside him, was Sherlock. His friend had come to accompany him, to help him, and boy he had been timely. Sherlock looked back at him and a little smile played on his lips, telling John everything would be all right, that he was there and would not leave. The detective began to move toward the seats, with John still leaning on him, and John let himself be guided without objection.

...

John sank into the cozy red armchair in front of the fireplace of 221B. Several hours had passed since the burial and Sherlock had offered his flat to prevent John from spending the night alone in the house he had shared with his wife. The other man was now making some tea for him and John, while John leaned back in the armchair to rest his back and warm up a little.

Minutes later, Sherlock came back with two cups of tea and some biscuits, all in a pretty beautiful platter that did not seem familiar to John. After a moment, Sherlock reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope, handing it to John. It had "To John" written in Mary's handwriting.

"Mary asked me to deliver this to you when you were calmer after her death. I believe the time has come. No, I haven't read it," Sherlock added quickly, due to the other man's accusing glare. "I am a man of principles, and I gave my word to your wife."

John nodded and opened the letter with trembling hands.

.

_My sweet John:_

_If you are reading this I have already departed from your side. I know it because I asked Sherlock to deliver it only after that happens and, even though he is an insufferable man, I know I can trust him. I will begin by thanking you for making me the happiest woman in the world, for being a great friend, a good husband, and above all things, for being the one who filled my life with color in these dark times._

_That being said, I'm going straight to the point, because I don't have much time._

_If you paid attention to the poem you will know what I know. I've known it forever, since the first moment, and I can tell you with all certainty that you didn't stop loving me the day I got sick, nor when I got stuck in this bed. I know this is eating your soul away, and no, you're not a bastard. Quite the contrary. You stayed with me until the very end and that's admirable._

_My dear John, and now I shall quote that self-centered smug: "you see but you just don't observe". However, I am not like that. I know you don't love me anymore. I have known since the day Sherlock returned from the dead, after our engagement. Your eyes shone for him with an intensity at which they never shone for me, and at which they never will. I know I was just your anchor while you thought he was dead, and I also know that at some point you loved me. But I don't fool myself, and my only regret is putting you through all this, having to take care of me and assist me when your heart is elsewhere._

_I don't hold grudges for it. God knows I don't. On the contrary, I'll leave peacefully, knowing that in spite of me you will survive, you will be happy, if you dare to dare, with the man you love. Because yes, honey, you love Sherlock. And Sherlock loves you. I know it, even though he doesn't, and I go calm knowing that you love and are loved._

_Follow your happiness, love. Do it for me, if you want an incentive; to honor my memory. Pursue it until you achieve it, because maybe it is closer than you might think. Perhaps you just have to stretch your arm slightly forward._

_Forever yours,_

_Mary._

.

John finished reading and didn't know what to say. He glanced at Sherlock, who lay on his leather armchair, impassive. It was all clear now. His dead wife had clarified everything to him, strange as this might sound.

He, John Watson, had loved his wife. Of course he had! That is why he had proposed to her in the first place. But then Sherlock returned from the dead and his life changed again. It was as if a part of him had awakened, as if something that had been taken away from him had been finally recovered. A piece of himself, one he needed to fully function.

Sherlock was his other half, his wife had noticed it before him. And she had accepted it and forgiven him for it. Now he remembered exactly why he fell in love with Mary: Her big heart.

At that moment John decided to pay attention to Mary, and honor her memory by attempting by any means necessary to be happy beside the man he just realized he loved. John _would be_ happy with Sherlock. He'll make sure of it.

"And?" Sherlock inquired, noticing John had gone several minutes without reading.

"I understand everything now," John said simply.

"Do you feel better?" Sherlock insisted, certainly pushing his social skills to the limit by trying to guess the mood of his friend.

"Much better," was the doctor's short answer, followed by a resolution inside his chest and words that came out of his mouth without being able to catch them. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just asked me _something_, but I suppose you can ask me _another thing_."

"You still looking for a flatmate?" Sherlock raised a brow before nodding briefly. John spoke again. "Look no further. I'd like to move back here. I want to live in Baker Street again. With you."

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, and then smiled at him with an open, sincere smile. The kind of smile he barely showed. John smiled back.

.

* * *

**_Meta Notes:_**

Phemoryl is liquid morphine. I took the idea (the medication idea) from Benedict's "Third Star". If you haven't seen it yet, do it. It's a beautiful movie.

The poem is Pablo Neruda's "Poem 20" also known as "Tonight I can write the saddest lines". One of my favorites, and very appropriate to John's situation.

Thanks for reading.


End file.
